Machina ex Deo
by custardpringle
Summary: The Ancients feared only three things. One was the Wraith; another was the Plague. The third was locked away securely, deep inside Atlantis, and should never have been found again. Slash. [COMPLETE!]
1. Skates

TITLE: Machina ex Deo

AUTHOR: Cyn(di)

RATING: Currently PG, but may eventually be as high as R.

SPOILERS: Anything, I guess.

SUMMARY: The Ancients feared only three things. One was the Wraith; another was the Plague. The third was locked away securely, deep inside Atlantis, and should never have been found again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was originally going to be an _SG-1_ fic, and then I realized it'd work much better over in this galaxy. So here's my first _Atlantis_ fic. Have fun.

Don't own _Stargate_ sniffle, or any of its characters, although I do own the plot to this story. I also don't own the Blue Oyster Cult song this is based on—first person to guess which one gets bonus points.

I'm a big fan of _CSI _and quite jealous of Marg Helgenberger's, ah, endowments. Please don't flame me.

* * *

They were never going to stop having this conversation, over and over again. Never. Because there was little they enjoyed more than getting in arguments with each other over ridiculously important things. Such as established sports that didn't even exist in the galaxy they currently inhabited.

It was as good a way to pass the time as any.

"I don't get you." John heaved a sigh and crossed his arms across his chest. "Haven't you ever heard the saying about a hockey game breaking out? Pretty much accurate, as far as I can tell."

Rodney also folded his arms, his brief scowl catching the glances of a few passers-by. "That's not fair. Hockey is a perfectly legitimate and respectable sport."

"Still looks like a barroom brawl to me." John shrugged. "Except the people involved get sticks handed out to them beforehand and big fat paychecks afterwards."

"Precisely. Because a football game is about as violent as a game of cricket, right?" Rodney's frown was deepening, mirroring John's steadily growing smirk. "And just as poorly paid?"

"Football players," John objected, "don't wear giant razor blades strapped to their feet."

"They _need_ those to move around efficiently on the ice. Hockey skates aren't used as weapons, even when a fight breaks out—which isn't that often."

"Yes, they are. I saw it on _CSI_."

"So did I, actually." Rodney threw up his hands. "But since when is _CSI _taken from real life? They can't even get the science right on that damn show."

John shrugged again, tried and failed for an angelic smile, and reverted to an ear-to-ear grin. "I liked _CSI,_" he argued evasively. "Good writing. And the music was really awesome. It was a really good show. Probably still is, if it's still on."

"Really good show?" Rodney muttered, not quite far enough under his breath. "As in, the actual show, or Marg Helgenberger's cleavage?"

"_Rodney! _How could you think such a thing?" John responded in mock indignation, then relaxed and swatted the other man's shoulder lightly. "You know what a prude I am."

"Go right on thinking that, okay?" Rodney shook his head in exasperation, chuckling, and glanced at his watch. "Shit. We're supposed to be in Elizabeth's office in five minutes.

"Let's go, then. I can always convert you to fandom of real sports later."

"Real sports? Where the players are so thickly cushioned it's a miracle they can even breathe, let alone participate in competitive athletics?"

The smirk came back for a second. "It's to protect their throats from being slit."

"By wayward hockey players who decided to try skating on grass?"

John was about to reply, but he was too choked by laughter at the mental image Rodney had conjured. A minute later, heading down the corridor, they were both still laughing their heads off.

Passers-by began to stare again.

-----

Elizabeth began without preamble as soon as the team members had assembled in her office. "Scouting teams found an interesting room this morning. They think it's a lab."

Rodney smiled. "Cool."

At the same time, John began to protest. "That's Rodney's department, right? Why'd you need all of us in here?"

"They _think?_" Teyla interrupted. "Why can they not be sure?"

"That's the problem," Elizabeth answered. John and Rodney immediately fell silent again. "The door's sealed shut, and the scouts haven't been able to figure out how to open it yet."

Ford narrowed his eyes. "Then how can they even guess what's inside?"

"Strange energy readings, apparently," she explained. "Weak, but unusual; their guess, and mine, is that there's some kind of Ancient technology in there. That's all I've been told; you'll have to go down there and talk to them to find out more."

"And I repeat," John said, "why do you need the rest of us to crash what's obviously Rodney's party? The situation doesn't really seem like they'd need two soldiers and a Wraith expert getting in the way down there."

"Because," Elizabeth responded immediately, " we can make all the guesses we like, but we don't know what's in that room. We need soldiers, and a Wraith expert, in case it turns out to be hostile."

"And your extreme compatibility with Ancient technology could be enough to open the door," Rodney added.

"Okay, okay." John held up both hands in surrender. "Just wondering."

"Any more questions?" Elizabeth waited a few seconds; no one answered. "All right, then. I want all four of you, fully armed, right here—"she pulled out a map of Atlantis and indicated a spot in one of the lowest levels— "as soon as possible."

-----

Sometimes, John reflected, the ATA gene frightened him a little bit. Strangely, it wasn't that he could make this entire city do pretty much whatever he wanted just by thinking it. That was just really neat. But the scout team that had found the sealed room was made up of young, impressionable-looking scientists. When he'd placed his hand on the door, it had slid open after a second (he'd actually had to put some effort into it for once, which was unusual), and the looks they'd given him were uncomfortably worshipful. He liked pretending to be a demigod, but only when other people didn't treat him like one.

The room, as it turned out, wasn't a lab after all, although it didn't seem to be anything else either. It was just a small, bare room, maybe eight feet square. Nothing written on the walls, even.

John walked in slowly, taking a good look around before lowering his gun. The rest of his team followed a moment later, Rodney letting out an immediate groan of disappointment. "Well, that was anticlimactic."

"There are still unusual energy readings, are there not?" Teyla reminded him. "We have yet to explain them."

"Something in a hidden compartment, maybe," Ford suggested, extending a careful hand to feel the wall for concealed doors or latches.

John closed his eyes and concentrated. "I'm looking, Lieutenant. Gimme a sec."

There was something in here, all right, and he was damn well going to find it.


	2. Headaches

Whatever it was, though, it didn't seem to be responding to him. Which wasn't just unusual—it was all but insane. After a few minutes of effort, during which Teyla went back outside to ask the other scientists to please come back later, Sheppard gave it up for a lost cause. "Hey, Rodney."

"Yeah?" Rodney looked up momentarily from his scanner; judging by his expression, it wasn't being terribly cooperative. "What is it?"

"This, um—" John gestured expansively—"magic gene I've got . . . it's supposed to work on everything, right? All the Ancient technology, I mean."

Rodney nodded emphatically. "All of it."

"There a problem, sir?" Ford asked.

"Yeah, Lieutenant, you could say that." John grimaced. "You were right—there's some kinda compartment hidden in here somewhere. But I can't open it."

"That's impossible." Rodney's eyes widened. "There's been no evidence that the applicability of the ATA gene is in any way selective—"

"Well, now there is," John snapped impatiently. "You've got the gene too, right? Try it yourself."

Rodney concentrated for a few seconds. "Oh. Shit."

"Maybe—" Ford began.

Teyla interrupted him from the doorway. "The scientists are becoming quite upset. They refused to believe that Dr. Weir had sent us here to replace them, even when I radioed her for confirmation, and they are demanding to be allowed to examine the room."

"Dammit." John reached for his radio, then let his hand fall again. "Ideas, anyone?"

A small, wicked smile flickered across Ford's lips. "Tell them we think there's a bomb in here and opening the door might've triggered the timer."

"Do you actually think that?" she asked, startled.

"Not exactly." Rodney shrugged. "But something's in here, and it's probably hidden for a good reason."

"More importantly," John corrected hastily, "it'll get them out of our way."

"I will tell them," Teyla agreed, and disappeared back into the corridor.

Rodney looked around again. "Were you saying something, Ford?"

"Well . . ." He hesitated. "I don't know much about the way the ATA gene works. But I was thinking that, if you and Major Sheppard both concentrated at the same time—"

"The combined effort might be enough to open the compartment?" Rodney finished, nodding slowly.

"My thought exactly."

"Makes sense, I guess," John agreed. "Count of three then. One, two—"

Both men closed their eyes tightly, focusing. After almost a minute had passed, a rasping noise sounded briefly, and a dark crack opened in the floor near a rear corner of the room. At the same instant, a grimace passed across John's face, and Rodney actually gasped out loud. A moment later, the two opened their eyes and immediately turned to face each other.

"That hurt," John accused.

"Not my fault," Rodney retorted. "I have no idea why that happened."

John raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not blaming you. I'm just saying—that hurt."

"Yeah. I noticed."

Teyla chose that moment to come back, thankfully forestalling the argument that would no doubt have ensued even though the two were in agreement. "The scientists doubt, quite rightly, that there is any chance that this room contains a bomb."

"They're still here?" John groaned.

"I told them that Doctor Weir wished them to report to her personally. With luck, I was right." She glanced curiously between the faces of her teammates. "Has something transpired in my absence?"

Rodney explained it to her.

Meanwhile, Ford dropped to his knees next to the hole in the floor, which was only a few inches wide but nearly a foot long.. "Whatever's in here, it's musty as hell." He sneezed violently from the dust that had been stirred up, and then hooked his fingers around the edge of the crack and pulled. "This isn't budging."

The other three walked over to peer over his shoulder, and Rodney bent down to brush away more dust. "It doesn't seem like the aperture _can_ open any further. If the cover is supposed to retract more than this, I don't see the space into which it would move."

"Of course," John pointed out, "when we looked around the first time, we couldn't even tell that this was here."

Rodney heaved an exasperated sigh. "Do you want to try moving this again, or what?"

John tried. A split second later, he sat down hard, clutching his head. "Okay . . ." He moaned softly. "Bad idea."

Rodney whirled around. "Are you all right?" he and Teyla asked in unison.

"Yeah." John glared at him. "No thanks to you."

"How was I supposed to know you'd take me seriously?"

"Um, sir?" Ford interjected. "We should probably check to see what's inside."

The other two men were still glowering at each other—John's glare lessened by pain, Rodney's by worry—so Teyla answered instead. "I will look. My hands are smallest, and it will be easiest for me to reach in if necessary." She unclipped a small flashlight from her belt, switched it on, and pointed it into the crack, examining the interior as best she could.

"Well?" Having come to some sort of unspoken resolution with John, Rodney was now peering anxiously over her shoulder. "Is there anything in there?"

"Be patient." Teyla reached into the opening with her free hand, fished around for a second, and withdrew it again. "As far as I can see, there is only this."

Rodney held his hand out, and she passed the object to him. It was dark gray metal, in a sort of curved T-shape.

"It looks like a sword handle," Ford said suddenly. "You know—you hold the longest part, and the two shorter parts protect your fingers."

"But there's no blade," Rodney objected, even as he shifted his grip accordingly. "What's the point of just having a handle by itself?" As he spoke, something seemed to flicker for a moment in the air in front of him, and he flinched. "Whoa. What was that?"

"The blade, of course." John stood up, extending a hand, and Rodney tossed the handle to him. He smiled faintly and grasped it more securely. This, at least, worked properly; almost instantly, a long sword blade sprang from the formerly bare hilt. It was darker yet than the handle—nearly black—and shimmered slightly. "Man, I've always wanted one of these." He stepped backwards a few paces and took an experimental swing or two.

Rodney could only stare, open-mouthed. "Did I ever tell you how much I hate you?"

"Often," said John distractedly. He was staring at the sword as if entranced.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm gonna hurt the _Atlantis_ writers so badly. Poor Elizabeth's stuck at gunpoint until January.

Plus, I watched _Darklight _the other night, and it was a pretty cool movie, but I'm scared of David Hewlitt now. whimper I feel like I need to write a scary-Rodney scene. (Actually, that could be fun.)

I'm retracting the original bonus question, because anyone who finds the answer also gets a big chunk of plot spoiled. I'll try to come up with a better one.


	3. Decisions

"Hello? Still animate in there?" Rodney waved a hand impatiently in front of John's eyes, and John flinched, tearing his gaze away from the glistening sword blade.

"What do you think?" John snapped indignantly. "Do I look dead to you?"

"No," Rodney sighed. "I was just wondering whether you could stand to relinquish your new toy for a little while so we can look it over in a proper laboratory. Like I said—we had a hell of a time finding the thing in the first place, and there's probably a good reason why."

"Yeah . . ." John shook his head slightly as if trying to clear it. "Yeah, of course. Here."

The blade vanished, and he passed the handle back to Rodney, who looked closely at it before tucking it safely in his vest pocket. "Thanks."

"No problem." There was an inexplicably uncomfortable silence for a moment.

"We should report to Dr. Weir," Teyla said at last, and everyone else nodded hastily in agreement.

-----

"A _sword_?" Elizabeth repeated, astonished. "Why would the Ancients have hidden a sword here?"

"We don't know, ma'am," Ford told her. "There doesn't seem to be anything written either on the sword itself or in the room where we found it."

"Compared to Ancient technology, it would be a very primitive weapon indeed," Teyla mused. "I cannot understand why the Ancients would wish to preserve it at all."

"Well, it's not exactly your everyday kind of sword," Rodney pointed out. "The blade is composed of finely focused energy, rather than actual metal."

"Like a lightsaber—but more accurate," John completed.

Ford and Rodney let out snorts of laughter, and Teyla frowned in confusion. John made a mental note to explain _Star Wars_ to her later on.

"That still doesn't answer my question," Elizabeth said sharply. "What is this sword doing here in the first place, and why do we care?"

Ford considered this for a second. "There might be more of them somewhere. A sword by itself is strange, but the Ancients might've been stockpiling a lot of them for some reason."

"First things first," Rodney argued. "I want to take a good look at this _one_ sword first and make sure it's not dangerous. If it turns out to be something totally different masquerading as a sword, we don't want to have an enormous pile of them sitting around nearby."

"Even then, what good would it be?" asked Ford. "Like Teyla said—we've gotten way past using swords. Even if it turns out that we can use it, how would it help us?"

John answered immediately. "Hand-to-hand combat, Lieutenant. We carry knives routinely, but a sword can reach farther."

"A sword is also much heavier than a dagger," Teyla objected. "It is far less efficient."

"Not this one," he contradicted instantly. "I got a couple swings with it, remember? It's practically weightless. Just enough heft that I could control it."

Elizabeth looked sharply at him. "Major, do you seriously think that this sword, or whatever it is, could potentially be a useful weapon on offworld missions?"

"Yes, ma'am," John said without hesitation, and then held up a hand to stem Rodney's protest. "_If_ our self-appointed customs officer approves, of course."

Rodney shot him a dirty look, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and settled for simply nodding in agreement.

"All right," Elizabeth said at last. "If, as you said, Dr. McKay thinks this sword is safe to use, by all means go ahead and try it. But please report to me right away if you find out anything that might explain where it came from and why. Dismissed."

-----

Rodney expected that John would show up in the lab at some point that evening; in fact, he was surprised that it didn't happen for nearly two hours. At last, however, a familiar voice came from the doorway: "So . . . has my quote-unquote new toy been passed yet?"

:Looking up from his worktable, Rodney rolled his eyes. "Almost, actually. I've run pretty much every scan or test I could think of without damaging it. It's just solid metal—I don't recognize the alloy, but it's totally inert. It couldn't explode if it tried. I haven't even been able to determine how the blade is produced. There should be some kind of emitter array embedded in the hilt—an immensely powerful one at that in order to channel the energy necessary to comprise a blade of the dimensions and intensity it's demonstrated. There ought to be a focusing mechanism as well, considering the sharpness of the blade—not to mention an energy source. But none of that's there. It's all just solid."

"Whoa, whoa. Calm down." John raised his hands in surrender. "You win—you know more big words than I do. Now, all I want to know is this: is this thing safe to use? I'm looking for a yes or no here."

Rodney smiled faintly. "Does 'probably' count for anything?"

"Sure, why not." John shrugged. "But it does imply 'possibly not.' In _English_, please?"

"That was English, whether or not you recognize it as such."

"In simpler English, then."

"Honestly," Rodney said finally, "I don't think it can be anything besides a sword, because I don't even know how it can be a sword in the first place."

John took this in. "So what are we gonna tell Elizabeth?"

Rodney looked at him in momentary confusion, and was suddenly struck by the color of John's eyes. He'd never paid all that much attention to them before, but he could've sworn they were just a little bit darker than usual. He shrugged the thought off as a random irrelevance. "I think you can bring it with you on our next mission if you want, as long as you're careful with it. Which is exactly what I'm going to tell Elizabeth tomorrow morning."

"Great." John flashed a unexpected wicked grin. "I'd love to try that thing out on a couple Wraith necks."

"I'd rather we didn't get that close, thank you." Rodney glanced over, suddenly apprehensive. "Be careful."

"I always am," John assured him in a cheerful tone that quite obviously meant _What? Me, careful? Are you nuts? _"Night."

"Good night," Rodney answered, his attention already returning to his computer screen. A few seconds later, he heard the lab door close.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay. Knives. Wait! No! I'm not a serial killer! watches all her readers run away screaming 

So! Who else watched _CSI: NY _last night? I loved it. It's a lot darker than the other two shows. Vegas and Miami both have reputations as party cities, so all the cases set there had the vaguest undertones of "Haha, this is what happens to stoned horny people, serves 'em right." New York is just . . . sad. And the color scheme's so much more muted. It seems to fit the show better. But the music's still amazing.

And Gary Sinise was one of my favorite actors already. He has a new movie coming out this week, too. bounces up and down impatiently (My mom saw the preview and said, "Does he ever _sleep?_")

* * *


	4. Wraith

When they arrived, it was already nearly dusk. The planet was their average fare: a wide field with a Stargate at its center, with a strip of woods along one end of the field just behind them. Teyla had said that she remembered it as being inhabited by a group of people who would probably be willing to trade part of their crop for medical supplies, but that she had not visited them in a long time and wasn't sure whether they were still there. Elizabeth had judged the chance of food to be worth the gamble, and sent the team to investigate, along with—much to John's delight—the sword, just in case.

"Doesn't look like anyone's been around here for a while, sir," Ford observed almost immediately.

"Let's hope you're right." John shaded his eyes, peering toward the horizon. "Teyla, just where were these people last time you came here?"

"That way." She pointed. "Just over the crest of that hill, a few kilometers away. Normally, however, I would have expected them to leave a guard posted at the Stargate."

"Which doesn't necessarily prove anything," Rodney added quickly. "The people here are probably expecting the Wraith to remain in hibernation for another fifty years. I wouldn't be surprised if they're still here and just too complacent to continue guarding the Stargate."

"You've got a point." John groaned. "It's getting dark, though, and we don't know who's living here now, so heading for the village now is probably a really bad idea. Let's camp out for the night over there by the trees so we can get firewood."

----

"Hey," Ford said suddenly, "did anyone just hear something?"

"Nope," John said, and instantly straightened up. "Did you?"

"As a matter of fact, sir," said Ford, "there it is again."

This time they all heard the distinct sound of twigs crunching in the woods. John glanced sharply at Teyla, who nodded slightly. "They are Wraith," she whispered.

"Great. Just great," John muttered, but he was already reaching for his vest, which was never far away. "Get your gear on, everyone. Let's go."

To be precise, there were three Wraith making their stealthy way towards their campsite. There was a moment of surprise when they discovered that their prospective victims were fully awake and armed and coming in the other direction, and then each side opened fire on the other at the same instant. Within moments, the team had been split up; one Wraith had gone after John, one after Ford, and one after Rodney and Teyla.

The latter two had managed to evade their pursuer for the moment and were catching their breath behind a conveniently large tree when John suddenly let out a yell; whether of anger, surprise, or pain they couldn't tell. The Wraith that had been chasing them could be heard to change direction, heading away from them and towards the sound/

Rodney glanced uneasily back over his shoulder. "I don't like the sound of this. Maybe we should go investigate."

"We should," Teyla agreed. "But we should not go together. It may be a trap of some kind."

"That's reasonable. What if I go to see what's happened to Sheppard, and you try to find Ford?"

She nodded mutely and slipped out of sight.

John turned out to be not too hard to find. He was still talking, and Rodney had no trouble locating him by sound alone. He came up ultimately to the edge of a small clearing, and then shrank back out of sight, stifling a frightened gasp. _John, I told you to be _careful_ with that thing, dammit . . ._

There was no sign of Ford; hopefully, he'd met up with Teyla somewhere. All three Wraith were there, however, forming a sparse but menacing—and steadily shrinking—ring around the clearing. And in the center was John. He had slung his gun uselessly onto his back, and was instead brandishing the sword. In the dim light, it seemed to glimmer more brightly than before, and in its dim light John's eyes looked not just darker but jet black. "Try me," he was saying, his voice grim but smug. "You won't get past this blade, I promise you."

The tallest of the three Wraith laughed, its smile widening nastily. "Your delusions amuse me, human," it hissed. "You do not even know how to kill us, and yet you challenge us with increasingly primitive weapons. I have not even seen a sword wielded in over a century."

John shrugged. "Well, now you have," he said cheerfully, and severed the Wraith's head. He spun around just in time; the other two were almost upon him, close enough now to fight back with their own knives. Rodney reached for his own gun, but by the time he'd raised it the fight was over. The remaining two Wraith had been dispatched—somewhat more messily than the first, but dispatched nonetheless.

Rodney could only stare in shock for a minute. He knew enough about swordsmanship to be very aware that it took a huge amount of training to use a sword—especially a big one, no matter how light. He was also pretty sure that John had little, if any, experience in fighting with swords. It wasn't exactly standard fare at the Academy.

John was now motionless in the center of the clearing, once again staring mutely at the sword, seemingly oblivious of the pale blue blood now spattered over him. His head was bent, making it impossible to see the color of his eyes. Rodney was about to call out when someone tapped him on the shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What happened?" Ford asked quietly.

"What do you think?" Rodney snapped back, his nerves still on edge.

"Is Major Sheppard all right?" Teyla inquired.

"It looks to me like he is. I was just about to find out." Without further hesitation, Rodney stepped forward into the clearing and called out, "John—" Before he could continue, John suddenly sprang into motion.

Rodney looked down, discovered that the tip of the sword was now pressed against his throat, and gulped.

--------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know, I should be posting faster. ::blushes:: Especially since the chapters are so short, and this is a pretty easy story to write. But I've just been so bloody _tired_ lately. ::goes off in search of caffeine:: I found a caramel apple. Maybe that'll help.

Note to self: caramel apple plus keyboard equals very bad things.

Judging by the color of Wraith skin, I'm guessing that their blood is blue. I don't think the color of their blood has actually been established in the series yet. If I'm wrong, please tell me.

This is Cyndi's friend :O Who takes over her computer and spreads evil within it. EVil


	5. Concerns

"Um, John? This is me you're about to impale."

(The sword was not, of course, cold steel. Being made of focused energy, it was in fact almost painfully hot, and Rodney was momentarily quite certain that it was burning a hole through his skin. It wasn't—the tip hadn't even pierced him—but for a split second he simply couldn't doubt it.)

When that initial fear had passed, Rodney raised his head carefully, and could've sworn he saw the irises of John's eyes suddenly lighten from a near-black to their usual clear hazel. The sword went down—he continued to watch it all the way—and then disappeared.

John shoved the handle hastily into his belt. "Are you okay?"

Rodney reached up and touched his throat cautiously. It was tender, but otherwise intact. "I was until you scared the shit out of me," he snapped, immediately regretting it when he saw the look on John's face.

"Sorry," John said brusquely, regathering at least a semblance of composure. "You startled me. I should've been paying more attention."

Ford stepped forward. "Something wrong, sir?"

"You seem distracted," Teyla elaborated.

John shook his head slowly. "No, I'm fine. Let's go. We're striking camp."

"Going back to Atlantis?" Rodney asked. "Why?"

"If there are Wraith here, probably all we're going to find is more Wraith. I'm sorry," he repeated, this time directing it at Teyla.

"As am I," she said softly. "They were good people."

As they trudged dejectedly back to the Stargate, Rodney stared bewilderedly at John's back, wondering what the hell was going on. Then again, he reasoned, maybe there simply wasn't anything going on. Certainly, he'd _thought_ he'd seen the color of John's eyes change. But there was nothing unusual about that. People's eyes changed color slightly with their mood, right? He must've imagined it somewhat, though, because they couldn't have been absolutely black. It was dark, after all.

Of course there was an explanation. There had to be _something,_

"Dial the damn thing already!" John called out, and Rodney broke off his train of thought to discover that he was standing directly in front of the DHD.

He dialed it.

At the same time, he decided he was going to talk to Dr. Beckett when they got back. Because, no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't convince himself that John was quite all right.

And somehow, he didn't think confronting John about it directly would do much good.

-----

Carson, however, was also unable to shed light on the subject. "I'm sorry, Rodney," he said regretfully. "When I checked the major out, he was as normal as you were. Meaning he was fine," he added hastily, anticipating panic.

For once, though, Rodney was too focused to have interpreted his friend's comment any other way. "Are you sure? He didn't seem particularly normal to me. The way in which he was behaving—"

"Yes, I know," Carson interrupted. "And you thought his eyes changed color."

"I didn't _think_ they changed color. I saw them myself," Rodney retorted. "Don't tell me that that's impossible, either. It's a documented fact that the eyes of Goa'uld hosts glow periodically.

"Yes, they do." Carson folded his hands atop his desk. "I've looked into it—the glow is a side-effect of the buildup of naquadah in the host's bloodstream. You know perfectly well I do blood work routinely as part of my post-mission checkup. No naquadah—or anything else strange, for that matter. Are you sure you didn't just imagine it?"

"I'm sure."

"It was dark," Carson pressed. "Pretty hard to see, wasn't it? And as for the incident with the sword, that's not exactly hard to explain. If you surprise someone who's just been in a fight like that, what do you expect?"

"I'm perfectly aware of all of this. I've considered it already, believe me." Rodney folded his arms, wearing an alarmingly stubborn frown with which Carson was only too familiar. "But I still suspect something isn't right with John."

Carson looked up, taking in the creases on his friend's forehead. "You're seriously worried about him, aren't you?" he asked, a tad more gently.

Not answering at first, Rodney turned on his heel to leave the infirmary. "Of course I am," he snapped back over his shoulder as he reached the door. "Why else would I be in here harassing you?"

"Where are you going?"

"To talk to Elizabeth," Rodney said shortly, and vanished into the corridor.

-----

Rodney arrived too late and found that John had preceded him to Elizabeth's office and was waving his arms around enthusiastically. "And they actually stayed dead for once!" he was saying.

"So they did," Rodney agreed absently, studying John more closely than usual. He was behaving like himself, certainly, and his eyes were undoubtedly hazel—at the moment, in any case. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him at all. _Maybe I _was_ wrong,_ Rodney thought. Still, he couldn't afford to take any chances. "Elizabeth, can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

For a second, Elizabeth looked about to reprimand him for interrupting, but then she saw how grim he was and nodded. "Of course." She gave John a small smile. "John, can you finish telling me about this later?"

"That's all right," Rodney said quickly. "I won't take that long. I just wanted to ask permission to keep the sword in my laboratory for now."

"Why?" John asked immediately, his expression darkening just a bit. (Had a shadow fallen over his eyes as well? Rodney couldn't decide.)

Rodney took a deep breath. _I'm already becoming paranoid._ "Well—as John's been telling you—it's an enormously potent weapon. I think it'd be best to keep it somewhere secure." God bless half-truths.

"That makes sense," Elizabeth agreed.

"I'll go find it," John said, and left so abruptly that neither of them could stop him.

Elizabeth stared after him in surprise for a moment, then turned back to Rodney. "Exactly how secure is your lab?"

"It's alarmed," he explained. "If anyone forces the lock, an alarm bell goes off in my quarters. I'd know immediately."

-----

When the alarm did in fact sound that night, he was waiting for it; he'd sat up late reading for just that reason. Nevertheless, when he got to his lab only two or three minutes later, it was too late. The door was wide open. He went in, and one glance told him that the sword, which he'd made sure was actually there before going to his quarters, was gone. Rodney turned around to go get someone—or try and find John, if he could— slipped in something, and looked down to see what it was.

He recognized them both instantly: Doctors Braun and Hamilton, two of the younger scientists who had found the locked room yesterday morning.

Judging by their appearances and the quantity of blood covering the floor, they were quite indisputably dead.

--------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: WAHAAHH! VIOLENCE!

I think I've been reading too much Stephen King.

I wrote this while listening to French pop music and enjoying it very much. It's funny, actually; if I hear this kind of music here, I run away screaming with my hands over my ears. (I used to like the Backstreet Boys, I'm sorry to say, but I haven't for about five years.) But just because it's in French, it's somehow so much cooler. (In addition to French pop, I also recommend Scottish punk, German techno, and Japanese rock. I'm told Mexican rap is good too.)

By the way, I'm absolutely certain of the color of John's eyes. I checked this time.


	6. Journeys

_I will _not _faint. I will _not_ faint._

"Shit. Oh, God." Rodney began to back slowly towards the door, holding on to the cool, comfortingly smooth wall for dear life. Despite his best efforts, he doubled over, and soon what had only recently been a turkey sandwich was drifting sickeningly in a still-spreading pool of blood. At that sight, he dry-heaved a few more times, then took a few deep gasping breaths and forced his eyes upward, reaching for the intercom. "Carson, I need you to get to my lab. Now."

"_What's wrong?_" Carson asked groggily.

"I don't have time . . ." Rodney could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate. He needed to get out of here. "Just get here as quickly as possible."

"_If you say so._"The intercom crackled, and then the doctor was gone.

A thought drifted dimly through Rodney's mind: _John didn't do this. He wouldn't . . ._

Then again, a day ago, he wouldn't have expected John to be threatening him with a sword, either.

Closing his eyes, Rodney moaned softly and pounded a fist into the nearest table, trying to calm down. It didn't work very well, not with two other scientists still lying dead on the floor next to him.

A sudden noise from somewhere on the table had him immediately alert and open-eyed again. His scanner was beeping and flashing wildly, looking as though it too was on the verge of hysteria. Rodney grabbed for it and saw at a glance that a massive power spike was taking place somewhere down the hall.

The Stargate. Had to be.

Half a second later, Rodney was dashing for the door, still clutching the scanner in one hand as tightly as if his life depended on it—although it wasn't _his_ life he was worried about at the moment.

He arrived just in time to see a lone dark figure barely a step from the event horizon. "John!" he called, his voice cracking in fear. And again, more quietly, "John . . ." The figure paused, turning to glance back at Rodney with clouded eyes, and then shook its head once and vanished through the Stargate.

Rodney glanced quickly at the DHD, taking advantage of the last few precious seconds he had to memorize the address before it disengaged. _Okay. Now what?_

As if there were any doubt about that.

Rodney had never undressed that evening, so all he needed in that respect was to find a spare jacket somewhere. It shouldn't be too difficult; as always, there were a few packs and some other equipment lying ready in a corner in case someone needed to leave on extremely short notice. The scanner went in a pants pocket for safekeeping, After a moment's thought, he took the rations out of another pack and jammed them into the one he'd taken; you could never be too careful, after all. Finally, he found a scrap of paper and scribbled something more or less coherent on it. He wasn't hyperventilating any more, but panic and uncertainty—and the all-to-fresh memory of Braun and Hamilton—were still nudging at him, telling him he was losing his mind. Assuming, naturally, he hadn't totally lost it already.

It was enough to stop Rodney in his tracks, if only for a second. _Holy crap, what am I doing?_

Saving all their asses, of course, he told himself immediately. Because he was the only one who knew where John was right now. And without John, they were all pretty much screwed. Because Atlantis needed him.

_And so do I. _But that too was unimportant right now, and Rodney tried to shove the thought out of his mind, just like he did every time it appeared.

Most likely, of course, he was going to get himself killed. But at least he'd have tried. So Rodney took a deep breath, moved to the DHD, and pulled the address he needed back out of his short-term memory.

Rodney's last thought before stepping through the Gate was that he was analyzing the situation the same way John probably would have. It was all the encouragement he needed.

-----

The planet on the other end was nothing but desert for as far as Rodney could see. In fact, it looked a lot like Mars did in most sci-fi movies; the sand was dark red and so fine that much of it drifted in the air, turning the atmosphere into a reddish haze.

There was, not too surprisingly, a line of footprints in the sand leading away from the Stargate. They looked alarmingly purposeful, heading on a straight line to the right and disappearing over the top of a dune. The scanner confirmed a single human lifesign about a mile away in that direction, so Rodney set off, one hand again clutching the scanner. The other was scrambling for his gun—just in case.

It took only five minutes to reach the top of the dune, and there he stopped and looked around. The trail continued on its perfectly straight way to another slope further on, leading ultimately to a dark cave mouth that gaped in the side of the hill. Even with binoculars, Rodney couldn't tell what was inside. John was, presumably, but God only knew what else might be in there that the scanner wouldn't pick up.

If there was anything, whatever it was, he'd find a way to deal with it. Solving problems was his job anyway, wasn't it?

Upon arrival, Rodney discovered that the mouth of the cave was larger than it had seemed from a distance. He hardly had to duck at all to get inside, and the cave itself had a high ceiling. He switched on a flashlight and looked around. John was huddled in a far corner of the cave, seeming to be barely even aware of Rodney's presence. He wore his habitual black pullover and jeans, but—for the second time that day—his clothing was spattered with blood. It was hard to ignore the smell of it.

The sword handle glinted on the ground a few feet away.

Rodney went over and crouched down beside him, but it was John spoke first, without looking up. "Well, last time I checked you weren't exactly stupid. So do you just have the world's biggest death wish, or what?"

--------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Fun times ahead . . . possibly because after this chapter, or maybe the next, I'm not quite sure what I'm doing. If this fic keeps going as easily for me as it has been, though, everything should turn out OK in the end.

I've been listening to French music again. "Goutte de pluie dans l'ocean seraient tous les mots, tous importants et tous inutiles, goutte de pluie dans l'ocean." Like raindrops in the ocean all the words will be, all of them important and all of them useless, like raindrops in the ocean.


	7. Questions

Confused and stung, Rodney sat back on his heels. "Yeah, that must be it. Because there's no way in hell I might actually be worried about you, right?"

A wind was picking up outside. He could hear it whistling through the cave mouth.

"Worried." John laughed hollowly, his voice still muffled in his knees. "About someone who just left two young scientists splattered all over your laboratory floor? Don't bullshit me, Rodney. Whatever or whoever you're here for, it's not me."

"Have it your way, then." Rodney made as if to stand back up. "I'll just go back to Atlantis and tell Elizabeth I couldn't locate you. And you can stay here and starve to death while you beat up on yourself for doing something that wasn't even your fault."

A hand suddenly clamped down on his wrist. John had finally raised his eyes—free of shadow, but bleak nonetheless—to meet Rodney's. "What do you know about that?"

Rodney sat back down, but John's grip didn't lessen. "I know that whenever you use that sword, your eyes turn black," he said flatly. "Even when you talk about it, sometimes they seem a little darker. And I know you'd never have killed Braun and Hamilton, not of your own volition."

"Convenient little giveaway there, that eye thing." John nodded slowly and finally let go of Rodney's wrist. He stared at his hand for a moment as if he'd never seen it before, and then let it fall to his lap. "Thanks for your concern." There was silence for a few seconds. "So do you have a plan, or what?"

"Do I need one?" Rodney glanced over at the sword handle, almost expecting it to be moving of its own accord. "All we have to do is go back to Atlantis and leave it behind."

"No!" John suddenly sat up straight, a cloud passing momentarily over his eyes. It passed as quickly as it came, and he slumped back against the wall. "I mean . . . c'mon. Look out there."

Rodney looked and suddenly realized that the wind had risen to a howl while he'd stopped paying attention to it. The air was so dense now with flying sand that there was no way they could even leave the cave. "You'd think the damn sword had _planned_ this," he muttered without thinking, and then realized what he'd just said. "John—"

"Who knows?" John shrugged dully. "God only knows what else that thing can do."

"I hope we never get the chance to find out." Rodney slid his pack down from his shoulders, and it hit the ground with a dull thud, making them both jump. He shook himself slightly. "Well, if we can't get anywhere, at least it can't either."

"What the hell difference does that make?" John demanded. "You're flesh and blood too—or had you forgotten that for once?"

His voice was so harsh that Rodney whipped around to stare at him, momentarily convinced that it was the sword talking and not John. Their eyes met again, and this time John held Rodney's gaze with an almost frightening intensity that was nonetheless entirely his own. Rodney worked his jaw, but it was several seconds before he could force any sound to come out. "I know," he said at last, thinking again of Braun and Hamilton. "I knew that when I stepped through the Gate to come here."

-----

_Gone after Major Sheppard. Get Dr. Lynch to find out more about the sword._

_--- McKay_

A forwarding address would've been nice . . .

Wondering whether matters could get any worse if they tried, Elizabeth looked back up from the note to look at the younger woman on the other side of the desk, one Dr. Jordan, who looked on the verge of tears. She had been the third member of the team that had discovered the room—had it been only yesterday morning? "I told them," Dr. Jordan was saying frantically. "I told them it was a stupid idea, that they had no business breaking into Dr. McKay's lab and they were going to get in trouble. But not like this."

"It's not your fault," Elizabeth assured her instinctively. "There was no way of knowing something like this would happen."

Dr. Jordan nodded weakly. "Thank you."

"You can go now. Please send Dr. Lynch in," Elizabeth called after her. "She should be waiting outside"

Dr. Lynch, the head of Atlantis's archaeology team, was closer to Elizabeth's age than Dr. Jordan and seemed more composed as well. Elizabeth thanked the heavens; she'd had more than enough panic and confusion for one night.

(No doubt she'd break down eventually, of course—but later, in private. This would be the worst possible time to show weakness.)

"Dr. Weir, you wanted my help?" Dr. Lynch asked, breaking Elizabeth's train of thought.

"Yes, I did." Elizabeth shoved her mind back into order, leaned forward, and explained.

When she'd finished, Dr. Lynch looked grimmer than ever. "I'll see what I can do. The Ancients obviously wanted to keep this thing secure. It's highly likely they've left some information about it somewhere."

"Then find it," Elizabeth said shortly, and waved her out of the room as well.

_Gone after Major Sheppard . . ._

What had those two gotten themselves into this time? Elizabeth wondered, and heaved a sigh. Whatever it was, she had no doubt Rodney knew what he was doing as far as getting them out of it went. She just hoped he knew rightly.

Yet another knock sounded at the door, and she looked up wearily to see that she'd been joined by the less wayward half of her offworld team, probably with the expected words of reassurance. But, looking up at Teyla and Ford, she saw only the worry that was no doubt written all over her own face.

They were scared too.

-----

Rodney had finally convinced John, who had looked ready to fall over in any case, to get some sleep, arguing that it might well be safer for both of them and offering his jacket—it was too damn hot there in any case—in lieu of a pillow. So John was now asleep in a corner, curled into an instinctively defensive ball even in repose. The jacket was scrunched under his head, and he'd clenched one fist down on it so tightly Rodney was amazed it didn't tear.

And Rodney was still seated on the cave floor, staring fixedly at the handle of what was surely (hopefully) the universe's only sentient sword and wondering what to do about it. It took all too little effort to imagine that it was watching him as well. Probably wondering how to get rid of him, too.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Anyone know anything about fixing computers? My CD drive still works—when I click Play, the timer starts going—and the speakers still work, since I can play sound files from the hard drive. However, they don't seem be working together; I can no longer hear the CDs when they play, which is hugely inconvenient since I can't write for beans without music playing. (I wrote this chapter on a borrowed laptop.) Anyone know what to do about this?


	8. Discoveries

"_Elizabeth_"

She groaned and raised her head; she'd been taking advantage of a few blessedly peaceful minutes to bang it on the desk a couple of times, although it wasn't making her feel much better and had in fact made her headache several times worse. She should've expected that.

The intercom hissed slightly, sounding concerned at her unresponsiveness. "_Elizabeth__? Are you there?_"

"I'm here, Carson. What is it?"

"_Can you come down here a minute?_" He didn't exactly sound awake either, come to think of it, but at least he was doing his job, which was more than she could say for herself. "_We need to talk. There's something you ought to know about this._"

"I'll be there in a minute." Elizabeth stood up and left her office. Ford and Teyla were still waiting outside, looking distinctly unhappy with their current inutility. Without asking, they fell into step behind her as she all but ran down the stairs and headed for the infirmary.

-----

Doctors Braun and Hamilton had been laid out neatly on adjacent beds at one end of the infirmary and covered discreetly with sheets. It was far too easy to forget that those two anonymous white lumps had been living, breathing people only a couple of hours. People she'd somehow failed. As their leader, she'd been responsible for their welfare. It was her job to make sure her people _didn't_ end up under white sheets.

Elizabeth had to force herself to turn away and face Carson. If she couldn't bring the two scientists back, she could at least figure out how she'd lost them. It might help to get John and Rodney back alive.

"Rodney came to see me after the last offworld mission," he began without preamble. "He said he thought that the Major was, well, not exactly in his right mind when it came to that sword. That it was controlling him somehow."

"Really." Elizabeth crossed her arms. "And why didn't you tell me this?"

Carson flushed slightly. "To be honest, ma'am, I thought Rodney was a bit daft himself, the way he was talking. He was going on to me about John's eyes changing color . . . I told him he'd been overreacting or just plain imagining things, and he went off in a huff to talk to you about it."

"Rodney did come to see me." She nodded. "But he never said anything about that, just asked permission to store the sword in his lab for safety reasons."

"I cannot speak to the color of Major Sheppard's eyes," said Teyla thoughtfully. "But there was a rather curious incident on that mission; perhaps Major Sheppard omitted it from his report."

"I think he did." Elizabeth frowned. "What happened?"

"You know Major Sheppard took out three Wraith with that sword, right?" Ford began. Elizabeth nodded, and he continued, "The rest of us were watching from nearby. When the Wraith were dead, Dr. McKay stood up and called out to see if the Major was all right. Next thing we knew, Major Sheppard had the tip of the blade pressed against Dr. McKay's throat. Only for a second, though—he said we'd startled him. Didn't think it was worth mentioning, I guess."

"Unless he deliberately chose to remove it from his account," Teyla pointed out. "Considering the circumstances, I would say that was more likely."

"I don't suppose you noticed anything about his eyes?" Elizabeth asked.

Ford shook his head regretfully. "Maybe I thought they looked a little shadowed. But it was nighttime in any case."

"So it was." Elizabeth gritted her teeth. "We've got two people who actually know what's going on, and they're the ones we can't find. Wonderful."

"So what exactly happened to them?" Ford asked, gesturing back at the corner where the two corpses lay.

"It depends how you look at it," Carson told him grimly. "It was Major Sheppard who physically picked up the sword and killed them with it—must've been, since he's the only one who can use it. But I doubt he did it of his own will."

"In other words," Teyla completed, "Major Sheppard was acting as an avatar of the sword itself rather than under his own willpower."

"That's about the size of it," Carson confirmed.

-----

John opened his eyes to near-darkness. He must've been asleep for a few hours; as best as he could tell, it had been mid-afternoon when they'd gotten there. He sat up, stretching, and realized his palms were wet—with what, it was too dark to tell. Sweat, probably. Weren't desert planets supposed to be really cold at night? The wind still howled outside, but otherwise it was alarmingly silent in the cave as he got to his feet. "Rodney?" His voice was scratchy from the dry air, so he tried again. "You still in here?"

The only voice that answered him seemed to come from inside his own mind, a cold foreign hiss. **He is here. But he will not answer. Save your breath.**

"What?" John shook his head violently as if to dislodge the intruder. "What the hell's going on here?"

**It was necessary**, the voice in his head continued unheedingly, its tone obscenely placid. **He lusted for you. His presence was counterproductive; it would have proven a distraction and an obstacle. We had no choice.**

_Was . . ._ John's throat tightened suddenly, a chill rippling down his spine as he finally recognized the voice. "What did you do?" he demanded frantically, but there was no answer this time. John grabbed Rodney's jacket from the floor, groping through the pockets until he finally found a flashlight and switched it on. Three seconds later, he almost wished he hadn't.

Rodney was crumpled limply on the ground at his feet, the center of a still-spreading pool of dark liquid that matched the stuff smeared all over John's hands. And there was no longer any question as to what _that_ was, because the flashlight illuminated it too.

It was Rodney's blood.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Heh. Heh. Heh. Feedback makes me happy . . . evil cackle

There was a little confusion (hi, Leah) about what exactly happened to the two scientists. Hopefully this should clear it up. Come to think of it, that was a very CSI-like scene, with the morgue and all . . .Dear God. I'm getting so fking morbid.


	9. Awakenings

Clenching the flashlight in his teeth, John dropped to his knees, trying to ignore the warm liquid now swiftly soaking through his jeans. Hoping against hope that there was something he could do, he reached down gingerly and tilted Rodney's head towards him. It moved far too easily, and with good reason; Rodney's neck had been all but severed, which would explain the massive quantity of blood.

**Nothing to be done about _that_, is there? **the sword observed. It sounded as though it might be laughing at him.

John closed his eyes in horror, rocking slowly back and forth, unable to bear the sight in front of him. Rodney had come after him, tried to help, and he'd . . .

"Killed me," a voice rasped. John looked down and almost choked on the flashlight that he still held between his teeth. Rodney's eyes had opened, revealing blue irises that were glazed, dead, but looking straight into John's face. And he was—_oh, God_—talking¸ even though his throat was a tattered mess. "You killed me," Rodney croaked again, his dead lips stretching into a toothy grin. "Enjoying your new toy, I see."

The flashlight clattered to the ground. "Oh, no . . ." John scrambled backwards, but there were only a couple of feet of backwards to go before he hit the wall of the cave. "No way in hell is this happening."

"It's happening," Rodney assured him. He was getting up now, his head lolling gruesomely on one shoulder. "Or are you saying you'd rather just be insane?"

"No," John whispered again. He squeezed his eyes shut, very tightly this time.

But he could still hear Rodney—or what used to be Rodney, anyway. "But you are." Hear him crawling over. "You're going insane. Didn't you know that, John?" And now he (it?) had John by the shoulders, shaking him and hissing his name over and over again as if he (it?) actually expected some kind of sane answer. "John? John? John?"

"Get away from me!" John bellowed, finally breaking out of his paralysis and shoving Rodney away from him.

Rodney hissed again, this time in pain. "What was that for?"

John opened one eye, then the other, and then sat up and discovered that Rodney had sat down hard, looking disgruntled but otherwise intact. He reached over and grabbed Rodney's shoulders; they were comfortingly solid and warm. "You're alive," John said weakly.

"Yes, I am," Rodney responded cautiously. "Thank you for verifying that. I wasn't quite sure."

"Never mind," John told him tiredly, but he didn't let go of Rodney's shoulders. "Just a weird dream. Sorry."

"I noticed." Rodney looked at John's hands on his shoulders, hesitated a second, and then brought one of his own up in response, squeezing John's shoulder gently. "The sword?"

"Well, I sure as hell hope it wasn't my own subconscious, because that'd just be scary." John laughed nervously and let his hands fall from Rodney's shoulders.

Rodney stared at him a moment, obviously unconvinced, and then pulled his hand back as well. "I'd ask if you were all right, but I have a feeling you'd lie."

_You're going insane. You know that, right?_

John shrugged, trying to stop himself from staring at Rodney's throat in order to make sure it was still in one piece. "You're probably right."

"Aren't I always?" Rodney tried to smile; it didn't work very well. "Oh, by the way—" He waved vaguely towards the other end of the cave. "I moved the sword handle over there. You were feeling around for it in your sleep. Besides, I was sick of having to look at the thing."

John squinted into the shadows. He thought he could just make out a glint of metal back there; then again, maybe not.

Rodney reached into his pack and handed over a protein bar. "Here. Tastes like shit, but it might make you feel a little better."

"I wish." John took it nonetheless and tried to focus on eating, even though the bar _did_ taste like shit, and not blink too often. Every time his eyelids closed now, he saw Rodney's corpse in his mind's eye, no matter how firmly he told himself it had only been a dream.

"So do you at least want to talk about it?" Rodney was still watching him closely.

John looked back at him and shook his head. "Not really."

"Well—" Rodney shifted uncomfortably. "It wasn't that hard to tell in any case, considering the way you reacted when I woke you up . . ."

"Just forget it, okay?" The words came out far harsher than John had meant them to be, but all he wanted right now was to forget the dream, forget what the sword wanted him to do. "It's not worth talking about."

Rodney looked a bit hurt, but the expression passed as quickly as it had appeared. "The wind sounds like it's gone down a little," he said at last, chewing his lip in a way that made John feel worse about himself than ever. "Maybe the storm's going to die down soon."

"Maybe," John agreed. "And when it does, you're going back to Atlantis."

Rodney gaped. "You're not serious."

**No. Keep him here**, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. John shoved it away as best he could. "I'm very serious," he said heavily. "You said you could tell what happened in my dream. I don't want it happening for real."

(Unless _this_ was the dream, not the other way around. _"You're going insane . . ."_)

_No,_ John told himself—and the sword, if it was listening—firmly. _I'm not going insane._

_Not yet, anyway._

"I don't want you here," he continued. "I know you wanted to help. And I appreciate it, I really do. But there's nothing you can do for me."

"John—" Rodney began.

"Damn it, Rodney!" John slammed his fist down on the ground, ignoring the fresh pain the blow brought on. "I could go Norman Bates on you at any second, and you want to _stay _with me?"

"Precisely." Rodney had gone chalk-white, but his expression was more mulish than ever. "You can't make me abandon you."

John pointed into the other corner, where the sword handle gleamed. "You're right, I can't. But that thing there can make sure you never leave at all."

**Of course**, it said. **Isn't that what we have to do?**

Shut up, John barked silently. You're not getting me again. Not that easily.

Rodney said nothing, but his face remained set. He didn't even glance back to where John was pointing.

"I came here in the first place to be alone. To make sure no one else would get hurt. And then you followed me, so I've been trying as hard as I can to stay in control." John shuddered—the nights here _were_ cold—and hugged himself. "But I can't keep it up forever. For both of our sakes, Rodney . . . please."

There was silence between them for another few seconds—and then Rodney noticed that John was shivering, moved closer, and hugged him gently.

Startled, John took a moment to wrap his arms around Rodney in turn. "I want you out of here as soon as this storm ends," he insisted.

Rodney smiled a little, sadly. "It hasn't ended yet."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Wahaahh. Mush. Somehow Rodney seems more romantic when he's quiett. Or maybe that's just me.

Yes, I admit it—that was a really retarded way to resolve a cliffhanger. But I enjoyed having myself a little Stephen King talking-corpse moment first, even though I actually freaked myself out in the process. (OK, maybe a tad excessive. But I'm the writer, so there. sticks tongue out) Also I've always liked the idea of überscary Rodney. He might show up again.

Part of that dream sequence actually is going to be important at some point. Not for a while . . . but it's not totally random, I promise you.

Much gratitude to Leah for overanalyzing my writing and to Lady DarkAngel for sending me such glowing feedback that I actually got a little high off it.


	10. Revelations

No matter what she tried, the walls remained stubbornly mute.

Dr. Lynch had tried everything she could think of; touching the walls—she had the ATA gene, which should've revealed any hidden writing, searching every corner of the room, not it had that many. She'd even called Grodin down with a scanner in case there was something hidden in the walls. But it had all been in vain. Apparently, the Ancients had hidden something immensely dangerous in this room without leaving even the slightest clue as to why exactly it was dangerous or what could be done about it. Plus, Grodin was still hanging around, bothering her. She was perfectly aware that he had a crush on her . . . but this was ridiculous.

"Did you check in the hole where they actually found it?" he was asking.

"Yes, I did." Dr. Lynch heaved a sigh—how stupid did he think she was? "Twice, in fact."

"I'll look again, if you don't mind." She didn't have a chance to tell him otherwise; he was already crouched on the ground, feeling around inside the crack.

"I already checked there," Dr. Lynch snapped. "It's empty, I promise you."

"Even this other little hole that branches off from the side?"

"_What?_" In a moment, she was on her knees next to him, trying to see into the darkness. "I never noticed that."

Grodin flashed a brief grin. "That's why I'm here."

"Excuse me." She pushed him aside firmly and reached in herself, almost immediately finding the cavity now that she knew of its existence. There was something inside, too—something round and smooth. She pulled it out. It was about the size and shape of a hockey puck, but white and cool to the touch.

"A miniature holographic projector," Grodin said immediately.

"Thanks." She concentrated on the object briefly, and the image of a dark-haired young woman sprang into existence in the palm of her hand. She shut it off again—all she'd wanted to know was whether it worked—and tucked it into her pocket. "We need to take this to Dr. Weir right away."

-----

Elizabeth allowed herself a moment to stare at the small white object that had just been dropped onto her desk, and then looked backup at her chief archaeologist. "Dr. Lynch, what the hell is this?"

"A projector," Grodin said immediately—what was _he_ doing there, anyway? "Like the one we found when we first arrived, but smaller."

"We found it in the hole in the floor where the sword was found," Dr. Lynch continued. "I'm fairly certain it's relevant."

"That would make sense. Very well." Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. "Let's see what the Ancients have to say for themselves."

Dr. Lynch pressed her fingers to the projector for a few seconds, and the dark-haired woman—not even a woman, she looked to be in her late teens—materialized again and began to speak. "_When the Wraith first became known to us, the Ancients encountered great difficulty in finding a weapon to effectively combat them, due to their remarkable powers of healing. However, after many years of research, we were able to conceive, and to build, a device we called simply the Machine. It consisted of three essential components: the core Machine itself, a swordlike device meant to channel the intent of the Machine, and the person chosen to wield the sword._" Elizabeth leaned closer, paying careful attention. "_It was powered by the Ancients themselves; specifically, it was set up to take in all the hate, anger and fear we felt for the Wraith and channel it through the sword, giving its bearer immense potency in battle; it served not only as an actual sword, but as an extremely versatile weapon with the power to project immense amounts of destructive energy, even over distances. At first, it seemed to be a success; with the Machine behind us, we came closer than ever before to eradicating the Wraith entirely. However, there was a fundamental flaw in the design of the Machine which we could not have foreseen. It began to retain the negative emotions that were meant to simply flow through it, and eventually they built up to such an extent that the Machine developed an awareness and personality of its own, an awareness consisting entirely of hate and a desire for destruction. The Machine began to exert an influence over the Swordbearer, to the extent where it would actually take control of his body and force him into committing horrific acts of violence with the sword. By the time we realized what was happening, our Swordbearer had killed nearly a dozen people. He had formed such a strong mental bond with the Machine that, when he was permanently separated from the sword and from the Machine, the shock killed him."_

"Oh, my God," Dr. Lynch said, very quietly.

_"We were unable to shut down the Machine entirely,"_ the hologram continued. _"However, it is completely impotent without a Swordbearer. To minimize the chances of another person coming under its control, we moved the core Machine to another planet which we knew to be uninhabited wasteland and concealed the sword here in the hopes of rendering it wholly inaccessible. However, our technology may have been compromised by interference from the Machine; if you are watching this recording, the sword no doubt has been found despite our precautions. Know only this: under no circumstances must anyone be permitted to wield it. If a new Swordbearer comes into being, and the sword is reunited with the core Machine, only catastrophe can result."_ The girl vanished.

Ford, who had come in partway through the recording, grimaced. "Bit late to warn us about that, isn't it?"

"Maybe not, Lieutenant," Elizabeth snapped, and then betrayed her words by letting out a soft groan of despair. "But they _still_ won't tell us the address of the planet where they put the Machine."

"You want to find the Machine," Dr. Lynch repeated dubiously. "I'm thinking something about fire and throwing gasoline here."

"Not at this point," Ford said grimly. "I'd be willing to bet that, whatever the Machine is, that'd be where Major Sheppard and Dr. McKay are as well."

"Precisely." Elizabeth nodded agreement. "Grodin, what do you think?"

"It's possible that the projector has information stored on it other than the projection itself. I'll get it analyzed." He grabbed the projector and left.

"But what can we do at this point?" Ford asked. His shoulder slumped a little. "Even if we find Major Sheppard, we can't let him keep the sword because it's making him kill people, and we can't take it away because that'd kill _him._ We're stuck."

"Maybe not," Elizabeth repeated. "Major Sheppard has only had the sword in his possession for two days. I highly doubt that's been long enough for him to form a permanent link with the sword."

Dr. Lynch shook her head. "But it might be."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Wow . . . ten chapters. Go me. Which means it's time to reiterate my disclaimer: I own Dr. Lynch, the sword, and this plotline. That's all. swears violently

I'm really, really sorry about the delay, and even sorrier that I'm finally posting a chapter that doesn't actually have John or Rodney in it at all. This has been a really stressful week for me as far as schoolwork, and it was nice to get all the happy feedback people have sent reminding me what's _really_ important in life. So I've survived this week somehow, and I can straighten my priorities out now and get back to writing fanfic. Yay.


	11. Changes

"John, what are you doing?"

"Just bored, I guess." John didn't even glance over; he was occupied, as far as Rodney could tell, in a minutely detailed examination of the rear wall of the cave. "I figure I might as well find something to keep myself busy until I lose control again and chop your head off for real."

Rodney shook his head slowly but didn't answer. He didn't know what was happening any more, or how it was going to turn out; all he knew was that neither of those things could be good, and that didn't seem like the right thing to say.

John switched tacks abruptly. "Why do you think we're here?"

"Here?" Rodney cocked his head quizzically. "As in, in existence, or in the Pegasus galaxy specifically?"

"Neither." John slapped the wall in front of him. "Here as in this cave. I mean, obviously, I came here and you followed. But why did I come here in the first place?"

Rodney shrugged. "How should I know?"

"That's the problem. I don't know either. We've never been here, have we?" John's voice was growing softer, as if he were talking to himself. Rodney had to get up and stand next to him to hear what he was saying. "So how'd I know the address?"

"The sword," Rodney completed, aghast. "You think it told you where to go."

"Yeah," said John bitterly. "And I went. And here we are, exactly where it wants us."

"And there's nothing we can do about it, either." Rodney waved at the storm outside, which—contrary to his prior assertion—showed no signs of letting up. "Sandstorms have been observed on Mars that lasted for months, did you know that?"

"That's encouraging," John said absently, still running his hands over the stone. "Hand me the sword, will you?"

The request was so casually put that Rodney actually moved towards the sword before he realized what he was doing. "I'm sorry, I can't do that."

"Really." John finally turned to face Rodney, his eyes rapidly darkening. "I'll just get it myself, then."

Rodney moved to block him, but John dodged him (how could the man always move so fast?) and snatched the sword from the ground. "Here we go," he muttered to himself as the blade flashed into existence.

Rodney gulped and took a step back, but the sword didn't seem to be focused on him for the moment.

John stepped back as well, holding the sword out in front of him at a level so that it pointed directly at the wall he'd been examining. The blade flared for a second and then leapt away from the handle, hitting the wall dead center and vanishing instantly upon contact. John tucked the handle into his belt, watching with evident satisfaction as rock began to melt away from the point of impact. Within seconds, most of the wall was gone, revealing a tunnel that led further back. It was illuminated slightly by a flickering blue glow, but a bend in the tunnel made it impossible to see the source of the light.

John grinned widely and started toward the entrance, but Rodney reached out and grabbed his arm, taking a step sideways so that he blocked the tunnel entrance. "Come on," he said frantically. "Snap out of it. There's no way in hell I'm letting you through here, so just forget about it."

By way of response, John lashed out with his sword arm. A brief flash of light shot out of the sword handle, knocking Rodney to the floor. He sat back up almost immediately, one finger gently probing a freshly bloodied spot on his cheekbone. If the sword could do _that . . ._ But John was already disappearing around the curve in the tunnel, so Rodney heaved himself upright and followed.

The tunnel turned out to be nearly half a mile long, but the ground was smooth, and in about ten minutes he came out the other end into another chamber. This room was relatively small, about fifteen feet square, but the ceiling was nearly thirty feet up. And the entire space was filled almost entirely with a huge, irregular mass of glowing blue crystal, undoubtedly what had been illuminating the tunnel. The light inside it was actually pulsing—like a heartbeat, almost, Rodney thought. Like it was alive.

John was standing very still just ahead, staring at the crystal. The sword was in his hand again, but the arm hung loosely at his side. Rodney advanced and walked around to face him. John's eyes were once more, thankfully, hazel, but something darker was glimmering behind them. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?" he asked bitterly.

"Apparently not," Rodney said, wondering how long he'd still actually be talking to John. "Especially not when I said I was going to help you."

John smiled faintly. "Well, you get points for effort, anyway." All of a sudden, the crystal began to pulse more quickly. He gasped, clutching for Rodney's arm with his free hand. "Oh, God . . ."

Rodney tensed, grabbing John's hand and squeezing it gently. "What is it?"

John gasped again and sank to his knees, pulling Rodney to the ground with him. The darkness behind his eyes was flickering more strongly now. "It wants me," he said hoarsely. "It wants to take me over. All of me."

"John, we've got to get you out of here. Maybe if you just get further away from this thing . . ." Rodney tried to pull them both back up onto their feet.

John only tightened his grip, holding Rodney down. "I can't," he choked. "It's too late."

"It's not," Rodney insisted—but his words were empty, and they both knew it. "You're stronger than it is. You have to fight back." But John didn't say anything; he was trembling again. The sword clattered to the ground, but at this point Rodney didn't think that meant much.

Their gazes met, and Rodney saw in John's face—for the first time since they'd met—fear. Not just fear, even. John was terrified, and Rodney couldn't help him. Couldn't save him. All he could do was hold him a little closer, as if to do so would somehow protect John from losing his mind.

Slowly, John raised his now-empty right hand to touch Rodney's bloody cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and

(_holy shit_, said a very small voice in the back of Rodney's mind)

kissed Rodney.

And, after one stunned moment, Rodney was kissing him back as deeply as he possibly could, so that for those few final seconds they knelt there in one last desperate embrace.

Then John pulled away. "Rodney—" he began, and then a black curtain dropped down over his eyes and he was gone. In an instant, he had let go of Rodney and was back on his feet.

Momentarily paralyzed in shock, Rodney could only sit there and stare upwards. "John?"

"I am the Swordbearer," said the person standing over him. "John Sheppard is no more."

The sword jumped, seemingly of its own accord, from the ground back into his hand, and the blade flicked out again. It seemed to shine more brightly than ever before.

Rodney scrambled to his feet and ran.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I think this chapter more than exemplifies my fondness for short punchy paragraphs. Probably another side-effect of reading Stephen King :)

With sincere and extreme gratitude to Leah for shredding me to bits :-P The changes made to this chapter are genuinely important improvements to the original text. This is _not_ a ploy to get extra feedback, I swear.

But feedback still makes me happy. Which is good for you. It gets you Chapter 12 sooner. (Chapter 13 will be up on Halloween, no sooner and no later, no matter what anyone does.)

If anyone's archiving this . . . please make sure you replace the old version of this chapter. Thanks.


	12. Victories

"Report," Elizabeth ordered as soon as she got into the control room. "Dr. Grodin, I see the Stargate is active. You'd better have something to tell me."

"We do," Grodin confirmed, but he didn't sound too happy about it. "We were right—there was more data stored on that projector. The Stargate address of the planet where the Ancients hid the machine, to be precise."

Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. "So why do I get the feeling there's a catch here somewhere?"

"We dialed the planet and sent a MALP through." He motioned towards a monitor. "Take a look."

Elizabeth bent over and looked more closely at the screen. It showed mostly darkness and a thousand tiny specks—illuminated by the MALP's lamps—flying straight at the camera. If it hadn't been for the green markings indicating a camera feed, she would've thought she was looking at a computer screensaver. "I don't understand."

Grodin flipped on the microphone. A howling noise came out of the speakers for a few seconds, and then he switched it off again.

It took Elizabeth a second to understand. "Sounds like there's one hell of a wind blowing."

"Exactly. As best as we can tell, there's a massive sandstorm around the Stargate on that side. No one we send through right now will have a chance."

"Then we'll just have to wait it out." She dropped into the nearest empty chair and hit the intercom button. "Lieutenant Ford, Teyla, I want you in the control room immediately."

Grodin looked over at her. "You really think this is where we should be looking, ma'am?"

"It had better be," said Elizabeth grimly. "Because I'm sending Teyla and Ford there the instant we know it's safe."

-----

It was still dark outside. This wasn't terribly surprising—it was, after all, nighttime—but nonetheless it pissed the hell out of Rodney, because he had enough problems already. For one thing, he was no longer sheltered in a downwind-facing cave, and he'd had to rip a big chunk out of his shirt and tie it over his face just to be able to breathe, which meant that his bare skin was now being pummeled raw by flying sand. For another, he hadn't been able to find a way to protect his eyes, which meant they were also having an extremely painful time of it.

And, worst of all, he'd just discovered that he was falling in love with a man who was currently possessed by a being who wanted to kill him.

Yeah, life pretty much sucked at the moment.

Still, Rodney wanted to hang on to it for as long as he could, which was why he was currently scrambling blindly up an obscenely steep dune which might or might not decide to collapse underneath him at any moment. Until the dune simply . . . ended. All of a sudden, he was at the top, and the other side was sufficiently close to being perpendicular to the ground below that there was no way he was going to get down it intact.

Rodney spun around to look behind him, gasping for breath through the thick fabric covering his nose and mouth. Below him, the light of the sword blade was growing steadily clearer now. It was glowing more brightly, too; its light had grown from a dull grey gleam to a silvery-white blaze. He could only just discern John's face behind it, a mass of shadows in contrast.

As the distance between them grew still smaller, Rodney began to see that the storm did not even touch John; he was surrounded by a bubble of clear space, the sword no doubt repelling the sand that whirled around him. And he could see, too, that the face of the man approaching him wasn't John's after all. It was the same skin, stretched over the same skull and facial muscles, but that was all. The eyes set into the skull were jet black, and the muscles were twisted into a hateful expression that John would never have worn. Because that wasn't really John any more. It was the Swordbearer, whoever the hell that was, and John himself was dead. Or worse.

"So you are the one for whom Sheppard cared so much," the Swordbearer sneered. The words were perfectly audible, even over the shrieking wind; he was close enough now that his bubble of protection enclosed Rodney as well. "I can see why he was so concerned for your welfare. You do not appear as though you would be a particularly skilled fighter."

_Was. _Rodney clenched his fists tightly at his sides, although it was half to stop his hands from shaking. "Would you like an opportunity to test that hypothesis?" His words were muffled by the cloth, but he didn't dare take it off.

"Not just yet." Without warning, the sword blade disappeared, leaving them once again in pitch blackness. Rodney braced himself, but the storm remained just barely at bay. The Swordbearer was circling him slowly now; that much could be told from the sound of his voice. "I wish to understand you better first."

"Why?" Anything to buy time. Anything to give him a chance to think of something.

"I exist to destroy," the Swordbearer answered simply. His voice, like his face, was like John's and yet not, a grotesque hissing parody. "The better I understand those I must destroy, the easier that task becomes."

"Well, then . . ." Rodney swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice level. He was wishing more than ever that he could seem although that was far from the only thing he was wishing for. "What do you want to know?"

"I am curious about your motivations in coming here. You placed your life in grave danger by following Sheppard when the Machine drew him here, and yet you chose to do so nonetheless."

Rodney's nails were digging into his palms now. "I came here," he said slowly and carefully, "because I knew what was happening to John—more accurately, what you were doing to him." He set his jaw, fury beginning to overwhelm fear. "I couldn't just abandon him."

"So I see," the Swordbearer agreed thoughtfully, stopping just behind Rodney's left shoulder. "Nonetheless, you were not able to save him, were you?"

"That would be self-evident," Rodney gritted.

"And now," the Swordbearer declared triumphantly, "you are now angry because you failed."

"You're wrong!" Rodney yelled, whirling around to face the Swordbearer. The cloth around his face came undone and fell away, but he no longer noticed or cared. "I don't blame myself for this. I consider the responsibility yours and yours alone. John is—was—" he gulped again—"the most resilient person I've ever known. Up until now, I could never imagine him succumbing to anything. But that's what you've achieved. You broke him down and you completely destroyed him. _That's _why I'm angry, you bastard."

"Interesting." A hand came up and squeezed Rodney's chin for a second. "Perhaps you are not so weak after all. We shall see." The sword blade flicked out again, illuminating the Swordbearer's face. He was grinning.

And, dear God, when he smiled he didn't look like John at all.

-----

Ford reached over and flipped on the audio, more out of nervous energy than for any real reason.

The howling of the wind on the other end was unnerving, and Elizabeth was about to ask him to please turn it back off when Teyla held up a hand. "I hear a voice."

"What?" He looked as though he already regretted having chosen that particular switch to fidget with. "It's just the wind."

"I think not. Listen."

The sound came again, louder this time, a sharper and shriller note carried by the wind. It was certainly a human voice, but with no words. None were needed.

"Oh my God." Ford slammed the switch off. "That was someone screaming."

"Ancestors preserve us," Teyla whispered. Her face was very pale.

Elizabeth buried her face in her hands.

-----

Somewhere, deep inside the mind that rightfully belonged to him and him alone, there drifted a spark that called itself John Sheppard.

At the moment, he was quite busy wondering what kind of trouble his body had gotten into since he'd lost control of it for good. Probably a lot, he guessed, which raised the question of whether he _really_ wanted to know what was happening.

John decided he did.

**It was curiosity that brought you to this point in the first place, was it not? **The voice sounded amused; then again, it almost always sounded like that. **And yet you still desire information that can only bring you unhappiness.**

Maybe he was just dumb like that.

**Very well, if you insist. But you were warned.**

In an instant, John had his body back. He could see, feel, hear. But that relief was short-lived. He couldn't control his own muscles. Which, right now—well, always, but especially right now—was a very bad thing.

He saw darkness all around him, broken only by the glow of the sword, and sand blowing around with alarming force, although it didn't seem to be coming near him. He felt the sword in his hand. He heard the wind whipping past.

John also discovered that Rodney was curled at his feet, moaning in pain and bleeding profusely from a dozen ugly wounds. And he was gripping the sword with both hands now, lifting it over his head, preparing for the last blow straight through Rodney's chest.

John shrieked out something inarticulate, but it was too late. The blade came whistling down . . .

. . . and at the last second, Rodney managed to roll out of the way, but the stroke still succeeded in laying his side open. The gash was several inches long at least, and nearly bone deep.

_Oh, no, please no,_ John gasped. _I can't watch this, I can't._

There was no response. He'd chosen to watch. He was trapped in his own eyes now, and he didn't even have the option of closing the lids.

He was kneeling down at Rodney's side now. Not to offer comfort, of course, because John still wasn't the one in control here. He was pressing the edge of the blade against Rodney's throat.

No elegant, quick killing now. This was going to be slow and deliberate.

The sword was biting in deeper, more and more of Rodney's blood welling up around it.

He remembered kneeling, grief-stricken, in a pool of that blood, remembered Rodney's nearly-severed head grinning up at him.

As the sword cut deeper, Rodney managed to choke out one word. "John . . ."

The last straw.

John summoned up all his might—more than he'd thought he had—and shoved.

----

The Swordbearer faltered. It was only for a few seconds, but it was enough. The sword blade vanished, he dropped the handle—and Rodney's hand, which he'd reflexively brought up near his throat, caught it.

"That is mine," the Swordbearer hissed. "Give it back."

'Not any more," Rodney said hoarsely. He raised himself up on one elbow, wound up as best he could, and hurled the sword handle into the night.

The storm immediately announced its continued presence in no uncertain terms.

At the same time, John began to sway and then crumpled limply to the ground beside him.

Rodney couldn't find anything to protect them from the sand, although it seemed to be easier to breathe now. It occurred vaguely to him that he should get them both back to the cave, but there was no way in hell _that_ was going to happen. Even trying to shift to check on John made his side feel like it was about to split open. He wondered absently whether his intestines were spilling out. It didn't feel like it, but he didn't particularly want to check either.

"Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?" he quoted aloud to John's still form, and began to laugh hysterically, even though it made his side want to fall apart more then ever and his head feel about to fall off. He kept right on laughing until he passed out from the pain.

The wind was dying down, and the dawn finally broke. But no one noticed.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know this was supposed to be the thirteenth chapter, not the twelfth. But the first scene of this comprises the entirety of what I was planning to use as chapter 12. Obviously, that wouldn't have worked very well.


	13. Visitors

A jumper came gently to rest on the sand. Medical kit in tow, Carson scrambled out of the hatch almost the instant the ship touched ground and dropped to the ground at Rodney's side. He only glanced back at Teyla and Ford once as he jerked the kit open, but they could see that his face was ashen.

"What happened?" asked Ford sharply.

"I'd rather not know," Carson told him grimly without looking around. "Major Sheppard doesn't look injured at all. I can't tell you anything about him until we get him back to Atlantis. As for Rodney—" As he spoke, he was already pulling out bandages and applying them as best he could.

Teyla took a step forward to see over his shoulder and gasped, pressing both hands against her mouth.

Coming up behind her, Ford swallowed hard. Rodney's torso had been reduced to a collection of ugly gashes, most of which were still bleeding freely. The few shreds left of his shirt were soaked with blood. There was even a nasty-looking cut neatly placed across his throat. And then Carson rolled him over, and they saw the worst of it: Rodney's left side had been sliced open. Blood was visibly streaming from the wound.

Carson began packing in cotton wadding as quickly as he could. "This'll have to hold until we get back. Bloody miracle," he added under his breath.

"Miracle?" Teyla echoed faintly. "How so?"

"The sword burned him as it cut," Carson said absently, concentrating on his bandaging. "If that'd been metal cutting him, he would've bled dry by the time we got here."

-----

The world was hazy. Warm, and snug, and very hazy indeed, and Rodney hoped it was going to stay that way for a while, but he thought he might try opening his eyes for a minute, just to see what it was like. It was really bright, for one thing, and he was just deciding that waking up had been a crappy idea when most of the light was blocked out by a face that was impossible to recognize by itself but which was speaking with an all too recognizable accent. "Don't try to talk, Rodney," it was saying. "Your neck's hurt."

But he had to speak anyway. The question had to be asked, even though he couldn't quite remember why. "Where's John?" Rodney forced out.

The words came out barely as a whisper, but Carson understood, even though he hesitated before answering. "He's here," he said at last.

Satisfied, Rodney fell back asleep before he could wonder why Carson had looked so sad when he'd mentioned John.

-----

He woke up again a while later, a little more alert this time, and listened in silence, staring at the ceiling as Carson explained exactly what was wrong and how long it would take (a very long time, apparently) to get better. As a matter of fact, it turned out that he was going to spend a hell of a lot of time staring at the ceiling for the next couple of days—a goodly portion of him was apparently held together by sutures and staples right now—so Rodney didn't particularly mind that he was on a mind-boggling number of medications that were making him sleep eighteen to twenty hours a day. It was better than staring at the infirmary ceiling and being talked at by people he could identify only by voice—Ford, Elizabeth, Carson, Teyla, Zelenka. Even Kavanaugh came to see him once, for some reason known only to himself.

But not John. John never came.

After a day or two, it finally occurred to someone to explain to Rodney that John couldn't talk to _anyone_ right now. It was then that the nightmares began, and so much shit was being pumped into him already that Carson didn't dare give him any tranquilizers to get rid of them. Even the infirmary ceiling (and the infirmary had one damn ugly ceiling) was preferable to being hacked up all over again. Or to hacking John up instead—he had that dream once or twice, too, and both times he woke up to find himself restrained because he'd been thrashing around hard enough to risk ripping the staples out of his side.

Eventually—he was told it had been four days, but he had no way of verifying that—a nurse came along with Carson and Rodney was told that he was going to be helped out of bed. Even though he suspected his legs had been amputated and replaced with prosthetic spaghetti, Rodney was sufficiently encouraged by the thought of using a real bathroom for the first time in days that he managed reasonably well getting there. Getting back to bed was a different story altogether, however, and by the time they were halfway back he wasn't sure he could get any further. Then he lifted his head a little and saw, for the first time, that curtains had been drawn around the bed next to his as well.

Rodney stopped in his tracks. "Is that John?" he rasped. He could talk now, but not much; it hurt like hell. "I want to see him."

Carson made a noise that sounded as if he were about to object, but it died away as he saw the intensity of the concern on Rodney's face. "Fine," he conceded. "For one minute. And then I want you back in bed."

They helped Rodney to a chair at John's bedside. The nurse went away. "One minute," Carson reminded him sharply, and then left as well, drawing the curtains shut again behind him.

John was very still, and very pale, except for a large bruise over his right eye that had probably been Rodney's doing. But the face was unquestionably John's. The Swordbearer, whoever and whatever he had been, was gone.

Rodney just sat there and looked. He couldn't think of anything to say; nothing seemed to fit. Silence didn't seem right either, but he didn't know what to do about it. Something wet was rolling down his cheek, and he didn't know what to do about that either.

He kissed his fingertips lightly and then pressed them against John's, dampening John's lips slightly with a lone teardrop.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am greatly shamed by my total inability to write Carson's dialogue properly. Sorry.

Ubergratitude to mikasteelell, who not only comprehended exactly how screwed Rodney was but proceeded to explain it to me in considerable detail (including the medical benefits of being injured by energy weapons). Without her, this chapter would've had massive issues.

Yes, I like describing large quantities of blood. Let me have my fun, will ya?


	14. Resolutions

John was waiting to die.

It wasn't so much that he _wanted_ to die, more that he simply didn't care any more what happened. After what he'd done to Rodney . . . It didn't much matter whether he died, so long as he didn't wake up.

John could hear voices around him. They were blurred, though, too blurred for him to make out what they were actually saying. The people talking sounded as if they might be worried about him, but he didn't particularly give a shit what they thought, because there was one missing, and that one was the only one he really wanted to hear.

What was more, John was pretty sure he was never going to hear that voice again, because he knew that Rodney would never have left him alone like this. Rodney would've stayed with him, no matter what. Which meant that Rodney had to be dead.

Sometimes, too, John dreamed, although it was always the same dream. He dreamed, over and over again, of waking up in the cave with Rodney's body at his feet and Rodney's blood on his hands. The voice of the sword was gone now, along with that of the corpse, but he didn't need to hear either to know what had happened or to understand the accusation in the glazed blue eyes: _I loved you. And you killed me._

And John always answered. _But I loved you back_, he'd say. But it never did any good—not even love, it seemed, could raise the dead.

He'd killed Rodney, and he didn't want to wake up to that. It was that simple.

-----

Every day, Rodney got a little stronger and sat by John's side a little longer. For the first day or two, while his throat still hurt too badly, he sat in silence; but then, as the cut began to heal—it had hardly been the worst of his wounds, after all—he started talking to John. He'd heard somewhere you were supposed to do that, that sometimes coma patients could actually hear people talking to them. If John heard, though, there was no way to tell.

And every day, John got a little weaker. No one ever came right out and said that, of course; to admit that John was dying would have been to admit defeat. But no one needed to say anything; Rodney could see it in the way Carson looked just a little sadder every time Rodney saw him. He could hear that, although the infirmary was just as busy as ever, it grew gradually quieter as the days went by.

Still, no one was going to admit that John was dying, least of all Rodney. So he kept right on sitting at John's side, holding on to his limp hand and pleading with him to wake up, doing whatever was necessary to keep pretending that everything was going to be okay.

There were times when he even half-believed it.

-----

The dreams were growing more and more vivid. They were coming more often, too, to the point where John spent most of his time now sitting in the cave and trying to look everywhere but at Rodney's corpse. He could never sleep—how could he, when he was already dreaming? It was an effort even to keep his eyes closed for long. In the end, he didn't even try to avoid it. He just sat there, his clenched fists all but glued in position by the perpetually fresh blood that stained them, and stared at the horror he'd perpetrated, listening with half an ear to the storm howling outside. It never occurred to him to wonder where the sword was; he was so focused that he hadn't even noticed that it was gone.

Underneath the roaring wind, John could still hear voices occasionally, even assign names to them when he bothered to think about it, but they had faded to a dull mutter.

And then, at long last, he heard a new voice among them, one he recognized all too well: Rodney's voice, sounding very real and painfully sad.

A small spark of hope flared up—and then he looked over at what was on the floor next to him, and the spark died as swiftly as it had appeared. Because if John knew anything anymore it was that dead men couldn't talk. Which meant one of two things: either the sword was trying to screw around with his head again, or he was finally going insane.

For the first time in a while, John looked up at the roof of the cave, and he suddenly saw that the stone was beginning to crack. There was a web of dark lines there that he'd never seen before. Even as he watched, a tiny shower of dust sprinkled down from one of them, sifting down lightly over Rodney's leg.

-----

Elizabeth didn't speak up right away, but the rattle of the curtain rings still gave her away as she came up behind Rodney's chair. He didn't say anything either, just waited to find out what it was she wanted. If they were going to have a conversation, he didn't want it to be right by John's deathbed, but standing up was still painful and difficult enough that there wasn't really much choice in the matter.

"The sword's been destroyed," Elizabeth said at last.

"Really." Rodney's voice came out sounding more bitter than he'd intended. "And just how do you think you've managed that?"

"Ford and Teyla went back there with Bates' team and some metal detectors and hunted the thing down and dug it up. Then they attached it to a camera tripod, stood it up right in front of the Stargate, and dialed. The energy surge vaporized it. It's gone, I promise you."

"So you say," Rodney said tiredly. "What about the Machine?"

Elizabeth heaved a sigh. "They couldn't find it. There was no sign of the tunnel you said would be in the back of the cave."

So the Machine could protect itself from unwanted intrudersafter all, even without a Swordbearer. "Then how do we know destroying the sword did any good at all?"

"We don't," Elizabeth admitted, and Rodney realized abruptly that she sounded at least as exhausted as he felt. "But it was the best idea anyone could come up with under the circumstances."

"I'm sure it was," Rodney agreed more quietly. He really didn't feel like getting into anything that even resembled an argument right now.

Elizabeth squeezed his shoulder lightly by way of response, and then the curtains rustled again, leaving him alone with John once more.

-----

The cracks in the roof were growing, spreading further and further through the rock and widening as they went, accompanied by an almost continuous shower of dust. A few small bits of stone were beginning to fall, too. Light was shining through the cracks: not sunlight, but a brilliant, flickering blue glow.

-----

None of it was anything he hadn't said before . . . and yet, he just kept on trying.

"Dammit, John, you can't do this to me. If you die now, this'll all be worthless. You're letting the Machine beat you down all over again. I don't know what's going on in your head right now. Hell, I don't even know if _anything's _going on in your head. But you need to know that none of this is your fault. If anything, it's mine for ever letting you use that sword in the first place. Either way, you held it off as hard as you could, for as long as you could, and if you hadn't it would've killed me. I'm not going to let you give in to it now. You have to keep fighting, because I could never stand to lose you—now, or ever. I don't think I'd be able to deal with it. For my sake, at least . . . please, John. Wake up."

-----

"Stop it!" John roared from his corner, no longer knowing or caring whether he addressed his anger to himself or the blue light that shimmered through the cracks in the ceiling. "Why are you doing this to me? I know what I did—it's right here in front of me. He cared about me, and I killed him for it—do you think I've forgotten? Do you have to rub my goddamn face in it? Because it's not going to do you any good. I'm going to sit right here and wait for that ceiling to cave in and kill me, and you can't do a damn thing about it. So quit using Rodney's voice. It's not going to work."

There were tears running down his face, but he barely even noticed.

-----

There was no response; then again, Rodney hadn't expected one. There was only John, lying as pale and lifeless as ever and breathing shallowly.

-----

The subject couldn't be avoided forever, of course. Someone, sometime, would have to admit aloud what was happening. And in the end it was Rodney who brought it up first: a simple statement of fact. "John's going to die soon."

Startled, Carson looked up for a second from changing the bandage on Rodney's side. "Aye," he said at last, softly. "He is."

"Are you sure?" Rodney asked, more from sheer reflex than anything else. He knew already. "There's no chance he could wake up?"

"Not the way he's been going," Carson said heavily. "His blood pressure, pulse, and respiration are all going steadily down. At this rate . . ." He trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

"But why?" Rodney said. "It's like he's just given up."

"I don't know." Carson shook his head. "There isn't even anything wrong with him, as far as I can tell."

"Except that he's in a coma," Rodney snapped, regretting it a moment later when he saw Carson's stricken expression. He softened his voice. "Like he just doesn't want to wake up."

Carson nodded slowly. "I know you've been talking to him. If that's not doing any good, there's nothing else anyone can do for him, really."

"How long?" Rodney asked reluctantly.

Carson hesitated, biting his lip. "A day, maybe. Two at the very most."

-----

_A day. Two at the very most._

Rodney drew the curtain behind him and walked to John's bedside, just like always. This time, though, he didn't sit down, even though his legs were feeling rubbery again. Instead he leaned down over the bed. The movement tugged at the staples in his side, and pain speared through him, but for once that seemed pretty damn unimportant. He leaned down a little further, gently pressing his right hand—the left was still in a sling—to John's cheek.

_One day._

Rodney bent his head and kissed John goodbye.

-----

John raised a hand and brushed it lightly across his mouth. For a second he'd thought—but no. He must've been imagining it. But there it was again, the faintest sensation against his lips, like something pressing on them.

Like someone kissing him. Except that there was no one there except for Rodney, and Rodney was dead . . . wasn't he?

As he focused on the feeling again, it grew stronger, and he knew for certain: someone _was_ kissing him, a kiss that felt somehow frantic and desperate. It was, John realized, exactly the way he'd kissed Rodney before . . . Before killing him, out there in the sandstorm.

But he didn't think he was imagining this. But he didn't think that the sword would do anything like this, either. Which left only the possibility that this was actually Rodney kissing him, which also made no sense, since Rodney was dead. So what the hell was going on?

Maybe Rodney wasn't dead, after all . . .

Startled, John hauled that thought back into his head and took a good hard look at it. Come to think of it, he'd never actually seen Rodney die. And yet the corpse was there at his feet, undeniable proof.

He looked down, and Rodney was gone. There wasn't even a bloodstain left on the ground where he'd lain.

Before John could begin to worry properly about that, a low rumble interrupted his train of thought. Raising his eyes, he saw that the ceiling was beginning to collapse for real. Larger and larger chunks of stone were striking the center of the floor and already beginning to pile up. Within a few more minutes, the entire thing was going to cave in and crush him.

He looked down again, and the floor was still barren. Rodney was gone, and logic dictated that if he wasn't in the cave he must be outside. In the storm. Dodging the steady shower of chunks of rock, John ran to stand near the cave entrance, stopping to squint out into the darkness. The wind was shrieking just as loudly as ever, if not louder.

But if Rodney had followed John here no matter what, then John could damn well do the same in return.

He took one look back at the roof falling in behind him, and then sucked in a deep breath and plunged into the storm.

-----

Rodney had finally gotten himself back into his usual chair. Getting there had hurt like hell, but he hadn't wanted to ask for help for fear Carson would send him back to bed. He reached out, as always, and gently squeezed John's hand.

And John squeezed back.

In an instant, Rodney was back on his feet. (He winced again at the fresh stab of pain, but it was far from the greatest of his concerns at the moment.)"John?" he said urgently. "Can you hear me?"

John stirred again, opening one eye briefly and then closing it again. A moment later, both eyes opened and he turned his head. "Rodney?" His voice was raspy.

Rodney smiled. "Hey."

"But I thought—" John shook his head slowly in confusion. "You were dead."

"What?" Something tightened in Rodney's chest as he understood. "Oh. Oh, god, John."

"'Till you kissed me . . ." John raised his free hand and touched the bandage at Rodney's throat. "It was so close," he whispered, half to himself. "So close."

-----

Try as Carson might, he still couldn't find anything genuinely wrong with John other than the inevitable wobbliness, which went away after no more than a day. Still, that meant that an otherwise healthy man had been in a coma for the past week and a half, so he insisted that John spend a few more nights in the infirmary just to be sure. Since this made it easier for him to visit with Rodney, John didn't object much.

He woke up in the middle of his last night there to an odd rustling noise. It took him a minute to recognize the sound as Rodney tossing in the next bed over. An instant later, he began to hear Rodney muttering into his pillow, and that was enough to get John out of his own bed and padding over to see what was wrong. He pushed aside the curtains, sat down on the edge of the bed, and shook Rodney gently. "C'mon, Rodney. Wake up."

Rodney shot upright almost immediately. He let out a small moan, grabbing his side. "I need to stop doing that," he muttered.

"Are you all right?" John asked gently.

Rodney jumped as if he'd only just noticed he wasn't alone. "It's not a big deal. Believe me, I'd notice if I'd pulled one of the staples out."

John tried very hard not to remember inflicting that particular injury. "You sounded like you were having a bad dream."

"I was." Rodney licked his lips nervously and looked over at John. "It happens all the time. I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Don't be." John hugged Rodney to him as tightly as he dared. "Believe it or not," he whispered, "I think we're gonna be okay."

"Are we?" Rodney asked softly, even as he embraced John in return. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one having trouble sleeping at night."

John pulled away slightly, just enough that he could look directly into Rodney's eyes. "Well, we're alive, we're here, and we're together. I don't know about you, but that's a hell of a lot more than I ever expected."

Neither of them initiated the kiss that followed; it simply happened, a natural and inevitable thing.

They'd gotten hold of each other now, and they were never going to let go.

Never.

--------------------------------------------------

THE END

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, huge delay, I know. This was a really tough chapter to write. It's unbelievably hard to write anything about a comatose person without running head-on into a cliché somewhere, but I think I escaped with a few bruises at the worst.

Immense gratitude is due to the following people, without whom this fic would have sucked in the worst way: alyse, apookie321, silentvoice29, gaiaanarchy, machingmonkey, and mikasteelell. I love you all, even those of you whom I threaten to kill on a regular basis.

I think I'll attack the challenge list next. Be very afraid.


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